John Doe
by D Veleniet
Summary: No one presumes my innocence.  Not even John.
1. John Doe

**Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. They belong to people with big names and corporations with bigger names. No infringement intended.**

**Author's Note: I originally conceived this as a "what if Sherlock was framed?" story. Ended up with this, which could continue as a multi-chapter fic, or it could be this more ambiguous stand-alone. I welcome any feedback as to whether it should stay stand-alone or be continued (I am honestly fine with either.) Thank you!**

Morning. Stiff back, crick in neck. Leaning on…what? Something sharp. No, not sharp – hard, hard edge digging into my scapula. Not lying down. Sitting. Legs splayed, one asleep. Body feels leaden, limbs like dead weights. Clutching…something. Plastic, small enough to wrap my fingers round. Curl fingers and feel wetness. Sticky. Lift heavy eyelids to let light in; vision swims. Close them with a moan. Head feels…cottony. Too light and too heavy. Like aftermath of a high but worse. Ten times worse. One hundred times worse.

Test eyes again, fight to keep them open. Staring at…familiar cracks. Ceiling. My flat. Blink, try to clear vision. Head feels trapped in vise when I move my eyes. Fight it anyway. Lower them to ascertain position and see -

John. On the floor, in front of me. Face down.

Bloodied.

Not moving.

Not breathing.

Adrenaline kicks in, swing asleep leg behind me, scramble to my knees. Bring hands in front to support my weight and notice my right hand.

Clutching my pen knife. Still wet with blood.

John: bloodied. Still glistening. From stab wounds.

_No. NO._

Adrenaline switches to panic, lunge for his shoulders, turn him over and -

It's not John.

Blink. Loud exhale sounds like a sob. Sympathetic nervous system calms down a notch while I examine the body.

Recent dye job (some smears onto my left hand); seven, no…nine stab wounds in chest and abdomen (crime of passion) , jumper looks exactly like one of John's, jeans are same brand, shoes…inexpensive, generic. Similar age, slightly stockier build, clothes meant to look similar, but…faint odor. Fresh haircut, newly scrubbed skin. Was homeless until recently. (Slight movements still feel like someone trying to squeeze out my eyeballs by pushing at my temples.)

Footsteps on stairs – multiple sets. Four, no, five…six? (Head still cottony. Give it a shake and grit teeth against the resulting explosion of pain.) Voices hushed, tense-sounding, male. Hear John's voice first (relief in waves – the resemblance of the dead man before me is uncanny), Lestrade, Dimmock, two other vaguely familiar voices: lower-level, usually only brought in to arrest…

_Oh._

Am still hunched over dead body, perfectly commonplace tableau. Except the body has been made to look like John, crime of passion, multiple stab wounds, bloodying my living room, and me still holding the sticky pen knife.

This looks…not good.

Men burst through the door, Lestrade draws his gun, cocks it at me, yells at me to drop it.

_Stupid, stupid. I didn't do this._

I drop the knife, raise my hands over my head and see –

John. (Still relieved.) Shock at the knife in my hand gives way to horror, then pain when he sees the body.

Pain? Why pain?

_John. I didn't do this._

Lestrade is asking me questions, but I don't hear him. Can only look at John who cannot tear his eyes away from the body. Lowers his gun as he draws closer, then finally looks at me.

Sadness. Hurt. Anger. Fear.

_I didn't do this. I didn't do this!_

"Okay, then tell us where you were last night, Sherlock!"

Lestrade, exasperated. Realise I have spoken aloud and have failed to answer his questions.

"I was…"

Think. I was…

Where was I?

Search memory: blank. Slate wiped clean. No recollection of last night.

"I…" It isn't like me to leave sentences unfinished, but am momentarily disconcerted by not having access to my memories since…

"Okay, fine. How about yesterday afternoon?"

Search again…blank. Nothing. Search for yesterday morning, anything from yesterday, any bits that could –

_High-pitched laughter. Woman's voice. Me saying, "For my friend." Knocked over cartons of –_

The image falls to pieces. I chase after them, but it is like locating a single piece of confetti after a thousand have been released on a gusty day. I can only watch them swirling overhead, can only guess at their meaning.

"I remember a woman's laughter. And…cartons." My voice is quiet, and I sound calm. (I am not.) Lestrade gives a heavy sigh, shakes his head. Forensics is swarming the body, photographs snapped. General murmurs, furtive glances between the body and John.

"John Doe."

My head swivels over, locks onto unknown member of forensics team. He gestures at the body.

"No ID."

Wince at the connection. _Not John. Not _John.

Catch Donovan's eye (when did she come in?); normal expression of contempt is replaced by horror. Then: sees me looking; takes a minute step back.

Become cognizant of feeling in the room. Am used to being surrounded by emotions from people at a crime scene. Contempt. Annoyance. Frustration. Anger. Revulsion. Even hatred (Anderson). Sometimes grudging respect and gratitude. (If John is there: admiration. Awe. Borderline hero worship. Patience.)

Now: fear. No one presumes my innocence.

Not even John. (Least of all John. Which is….)

I have envisioned this scenario many times before. Am discovered at a crime scene and am somehow in compromising position to a dead body. Perhaps not your normal everyday fantasy, but then again there is nothing normal about my brain. Always provided me with a thrill, the thought of having to overcome the extra challenge of proving my innocence. Me versus all of Scotland Yard, making deductions, pointing out obvious clues, rolling my eyes at their incompetence as they struggle to keep up with my breakneck speed. If I was particularly invested in the fantasy, I would drag it out, letting it take at least an hour. If I needed only a quick distraction, I would prove my innocence in less than twenty minutes.

But I always had all of my faculties in this fantasy, my brain intact and not feeling as though someone had spread a thick layer of cobwebs over my hippocampus. The body was unknown (suppress shudder), and always, always, _always_ John was on my side. Insisting my innocence from the start, raising his voice at the detectives or sometimes resorting to shouting obscenities in response to their complete lack of faith, their utter lack of gratitude for all I'd done for them. He would take me aside and vow to help me in whatever way he could, and I would acknowledge his support, be grateful for it, but tell him it was really unnecessary, thank you, and proceed to dazzle him with my rapid-fire deductions. He would shake his head, tell me I was extraordinary (while Scotland Yard groveled in repentance) and I would dismiss it, saying it was nothing, really, and we would share a taxi ride home where I would bask in the bald glow of his admiration.

Now: all eyes are on me (those who aren't afraid to look). This: my secret fantasy made into a mockery. Especially the crowning detail.

Last thing I remember…argument. Raised voices. John's face ablaze with anger. Me sneering, then snarling at him. It had been three weeks since the last case, and I was going (quickly) mad. The noise in my head had slowly crested to a deafening roar. He found me. Damning evidence. He destroyed it; I threatened him. Slammed doors, stamping footfalls down the stairs. I knew my destination, veins thrummed with anticipation. Faces in shadow, few words needed. My prize in my hand, cradling it like a kitten. Don't even feel it as it goes in then –

Nothing. Blank.

My voice is low and steady, though I know my next words may ensure that this nightmare of a crime scene will be my last.

"The last thing I remember is getting high."

John crosses his arms and moves to the window, shaking his head. His back towards me.

I close my eyes against the crushing defeat.


	2. The Right Words

**Disclaimer: I still don't own these characters. No infringement intended.**

**Author's Note: I made a few minor revisions to chapter 1 (one glaring scientific error corrected, my apologies!) so I've replaced the content. Also, many thanks for the very kind words and to all who encouraged me to continue with this – I hope this next chapter lives up to your expectations! **

Lestrade is yelling at me again, voice raised, hands waving madly through the air. Tune him out and focus instead on John by the window, arms crossed, head bowed, deep in thought. Can picture him from another time, from many times, common sight of him with crossed arms, bowed head and lips pursed, thinking. Always found it an oddly endearing sight: John's face trying to work out what his mind can't, lips pursed as though they could push his thoughts further along, reach his conclusion faster.

_Yes – think, John, really _think_. I wouldn't do this. You know I wouldn't do this- turn around and tell them._

Hear clink of metal, Lestrade has quieted down and sounds apologetic. Turn and see: him holding out a cuff, ready to snap on my wrist. Immediately unmute his volume and his words hit me unexpectedly.

"-to do this, but you know that I have no choice, I can't give special treatment even if –"

"No." I interrupt him. "Just -" John moves into my line of vision, heading for the door, lips set in unpursed, grim line. He has reached his conclusion.

Take reflexive step toward his retreating back. "John."

My voice arrests him: shoulders stiffen, tension radiates from his spine, down his arms to hands that clench and unclench in fists. Not uncommon: have arrested his movements out the door before with very reasonable requests for particular food items or components for an experiment to assist with a case. The reaction is the same (tense back and clenched fists oft-observed in 221B),but he always complies with my request. This: my most reasonable request to date.

"I didn't do this. I know I didn't do this." _Stay. Don't go. _

Doesn't take him long to spin around. Eyes hard, plastic face wishing to mould itself into anger, kept in check by his clamped jaw.

"You don't really know what you did, seeing as you blacked out after you…" He cannot finish the thought, and instead his head snaps as though to chase it away.

"I didn't take enough to…" Falter. John's face is plain: wrong words. (What are the right words? "Clearly a murder like this requires extensive premeditation, yet I only had just the one day"? Accurate, but not what John wants to hear. "If I had wanted his hair to look like yours, I would have purchased at least three different colours of hair dye to achieve the right mix of blonde, brown and grey"? Perhaps not the right moment for such an admission. "If I had been careful and detail-oriented enough in the planning to find your exact brand of jeans, why would I become so sloppy in its execution?" Think John will fail to see the logic. Right words: not my area.)

"Sherlock." Lestrade again. Impatient. Resigned. The threat of being enclosed in metal, freedom about to slip through my fingers and yet –

John taking the opportunity of a distraction, turning on his heel towards the door. John's back ready to present itself to me again.

Am paralysed by indecision: cannot allow myself to be arrested (lose only chance of sifting through the evidence, proving my innocence), but cannot allow John to leave (lose desire to sift through the evidence, proving my innocence.) Lestrade, impatient; John, leaving. Me: armed with the wrong words and a brain dulled by multiple layers of cotton.

"John, I'd like you to stay."

The pleading in my voice does not go unnoticed by him as evidenced by his uncomfortable swallowing, but it makes no difference. He's leaving. His back will be the last I ever see of him.

Never knew I'd be forced to make such a study of John's back.

Close my eyes, block everything and search, dig - _what are the right words?_

"John, _please_."

The word falls unbidden from my mouth, driven to desperation. Am aware of lightning rod-effect on the room: conversation halted, pause in photograph-taking, fingerprint brushes poised mid-air. Even Lestrade's hands have stilled, momentarily loosening his grip on one of the cuffs which slides between his thumb and forefinger. Would normally snatch opportunity of complete silence for one of myriad uses, but all concentration is on John. I am silent. May not be breathing.

John's turn is slow this time, doubt now warring with anger, pain (why pain? Why?) Meets my gaze, challenges me to continue.

"I need your help."

The sound that comes from him could hardly be called a laugh: strangled, high-pitched, hysterical. His breath noisy through his nose, short puffs, barely holding himself together. He looks like he might hit me.

I would let him, if he would stay.

"You…didn't _want_ my help."

An accusation. What did I…?

_Oh._

A sliver of memory returns, focus sharpened. The damning evidence he destroyed; my threats were not for its loss (easy to obtain anew, obviously.) John's face, anger melting to sadness and some other emotion I could not identify. His request, pleading tone masked by medical concern, impossible in its simplicity. _Let me help you._

Blinding rage. Snarled epithets thrown into his plastic, changeable face. A firestorm of insults rained down on his tense shoulders. John's pity: the one thing I never wanted from him.

Now: will submit myself to his pity, his medical concern, his other emotions I could not identify, will reduce myself to a mere speck of a man to keep him here.

"I was wrong."

This time the deafening silence is broken by the sounds of a brush dropping and landing on the carpet and the handcuffs sliding from Lestrade's grip altogether so they clank against each other as he breaks their precipitous fall. All this mixed in with muffled gasps, audible intakes of breath.

But –

His lips are pursed, unclenched jaw, allowing thoughts to move again. Rapid blinking instead of stony stare. Thinking. Deciding.

I wait. Suspend every unnecessary bodily function; would pause contractions of my heart muscle if I could. Ignore my body's demand for oxygen.

He crosses his arms (defensive), planted feet (firm – not moving, at least), soldier's stance. Every muscle taut with tension. The threshold of the door the new line in the sand. His adversary: me.

"One condition."

_Anythinganythinganything._

"What?" I sound careful, my considerable ego piqued.

A pause as he gathers his resolve. "Never again. You're done with it."


	3. Take No Prisoners

**Disclaimer: I still don't own these characters. No infringement intended.**

**Author's Note: Many thanks to my readers for your continued support – your feedback is invaluable and much appreciated! And I want to send a special shout-out to my amazing sister for all her support, encouragement, coaxing and just all-around-awesomeness (and especially for her advice on this chapter). Much love to you, Elizabeth O! **

Chapter 3 – Take No Prisoners

"Never again. You're done with it."

Blink. Swallow (esophagus feels limp, hard to contract.) Inhale shakily (oxygen ratio feels out of balance: too many people in the flat.) Open mouth but cannot form words.

"And if I _ever_ find you're back on it again, that's it. I'm gone. I mean it."

He does. And can see him silently counting down from ten.

_But the noise, John – I am more dangerous to myself and to others when I cannot calm the noise, and the cocaine –_

He's already at eight.

Consider: I say no, John leaves. I am arrested. Trial ensues. Without opportunity to dig the police out of their depth, (no loyal doctor by my side to insist I get another go, no desire to request a second look at the evidence), I am convicted. Sentenced to prison; long sentence for murder; longer still for level of premeditation (briefly wonder if Mycroft's infuriating meddling could actually be used to my advantage to negotiate a shorter prison term; doubtful.) Advantages in prison: easy access to cocaine, could calm the noise from inevitable brain rot. Disadvantages: no freedom, easy target for any number of vengeful prisoners I put there. No cases. No visitors – other than Mycroft (smug bastard would never miss the opportunity to gloat). Mrs. Hudson? (Possibly.) Lestrade? (Possibly. Possibly not.)

No John.

He's at seven.

I say yes, John stays. Buy time from Lestrade to start on the evidence, possibly prove my innocence before he can arrest me. If arrested, still have advantage of access to evidence, trial less likely (would prove my innocence before it came to that), no prison time. Freedom. Continued access to cases. Brain work. Resources to discover who orchestrated this mockery of my fantasy. Time to hunt them down.

John at my side.

_Six._

But –

No cocaine. No remedy for the screaming noise when there is that inevitable pause between brutal, gorgeous crimes. No rest for my brain when the criminals of London are resting on their laurels.

_Five._

Think. Could I lie? Simple to say yes now, save a bit for later, (or seek it out) for dire circumstances. Have lied before, never a problem. To Lestrade (essentially swore on a stack of Bibles to regain access to a case); to Mycroft (prevented the nosy bastard from installing cameras in my flat. Has learned better since then but only eyes me with condescending disapproval while appearing vaguely constipated.) This lie: as easy as the others. Know the precise cadence I must adapt, have perfected the appropriate resigned defeat, of feigned shame.

_Four._

Simple solution. But…

Consider: John's bearing. No longer the doctor, all compassionate bedside manner and medical concern for his friend. No. Am dealing with John the soldier, every muscle fibre military erect. His face: battlefield-ready, ripe for confrontation. No room for negotiation. No tolerance for lies. Was unaware this side of him existed: this take no prisoners John.

_Three._

Cannot let him leave.

Cannot go to prison.

Cannot lie to him.

_Two._

(Can an addict really choose to give up that which has sustained him, fed him, propelled him forward, provided an out, his only escape clause - for years - in the space of one second?)

_One._

"All right."

No shame to feign. No resigned defeat. Utter my promise through clenched jaw, irritation barely held in check.

Flinty gaze pries at my piercing trademark stare. Uncertain. Unconvinced.

"_Never,_ Sherlock."

(Can he read my discarded intention to lie in my face the way I can read his unwillingness to negotiate in his?)

"I'm…" Too loud: still irritated. Breathe to calm myself (oxygen ratio restored). Hasn't promised to stay yet. "I know." Quieter. Less terse.

Sound of a barked laugh at my side. Lestrade. "I've heard _that_ one before." Clinking metal swings, precariously close to my wrists.

_Shut up._

"He's an addict – of course he'll promise to quit. That's how it goes – promised me the same thing a while back. Though I'm pretty sure he did it just to get back on that case."

_SHUT UP._

"Yeah…" John: almost agreeable. "I'm sure he did." Continues maddening third-person references to me that only occur when labeled as addict. Dehumanizing. Degrading. "But – he knows the consequences this time….don't you?"

Brain rings with echoes of the word. _Consequences. _Previously unfamiliar word, reserved for those who care. Who have something to lose.

Never had anything to lose (worth keeping) before.

Sounds of people pretending to be busy, but am aware of everyone's attention lasered at me. Unwanted. Shift weight to left side of body. (Mistake: slight movement incites instant electrical impulses of pain from sensitive nerve endings behind my retinas.) Feel exposed, naked. John: wringing promise from me not once, but twice. Holding me to it. Solidifying it.

No doctor-patient confidentiality here. This: penance for my actions of the previous two nights - the first night: guilty; the second: undetermined (in my - in his? - eyes), all at the hands of a wartime soldier. The rough, ruthless hands that ended lives rather than saving them.

"Yes. I'm aware."

Eyes crease at the corners, studying me. Weighing the validity of my words.

Add: "Of the consequences."

Lock my eyes to his, beg him silently.

_Here, doctor; here, soldier: my life in your hands. You have the power to save it. You have the power to end it._

Another moment passes. Then: forceful exhalation through his nose, noticeable sagging of his shoulders, eyes closed to the chaotic scene. Tension draining from his (upper) body. Opened eyes now devoid of fight, strain not to look at the doppelganger lying on the floor to his left. Raises his head, fight-or-flight burst of adrenaline gone, replaced with exhaustion.

"Okay."

Still angry. Still hurt (must investigate cause - later). Still wary.

But staying. At last.


End file.
